You’re A Woman Now…Meet The President!

By Cate DrewIn my eagerness to mark the occasion of my daughter’s first period, I inadvertently forever tied the ‘great event’ to former President Bill Clinton. Yes indeedy. I didn’t plan on it, but hell, it was presidential primary season, and in our state, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a presidential candidate. And I wanted my daughter’s entry into the “world of women” to be more memorable than mine. I only remember starting my period by fits and starts – Is that blood? Is it supposed to be brown? What the heck?

And when I did finally start officially, I told my mom, who told my dad, who told the entire extended family at a reunion barbecue. Yes, he announced it, after a few slugs of Canadian Club, and as I walked onto the patio to ask my mom for the bottle opener, there was my dad, addressing the crowd, winding up what I’m sure was a very dramatic presentation by concluding, “….and now, she’s a woman.”

Things were going to be different for my daughter. First, no telling Dad anything. Second, no giant Kotex pad to wear with that terrible elasticized belt, which we had to use back in the days before they invented Tang and the adhesive strip.

And most importantly, the ‘big day’ was going to be upbeat and fun, so off we went to go shopping and maybe shoot the works by stopping at the local drive-thru for a McFlurry.

We drove to the local ATM, and crowding the bank parking lot was a fleet of police cruisers and two big black SUVs. I thought someone had robbed the place, but then I saw balloons and a crowd of kids with “I Love Hillary” t-shirts. I suggested to Jenn we check out the excitement, and as we stood about 20 feet away, here comes Hillary, her peach-colored pantsuit the same color as her perfectly coiffed hair, walking over to the teens, waving, smiling, posing for a quick picture, and then she hopped into one of the SUVs.

“Hey, Claire, pretty exciting, huh?” Then I spotted Bill, strolling over to the teens, smiling that “forgive me for anything” smile, and as he turned toward the other SUV, I channeled that old lady reporter, Helen What’s-Her-Name, and yelled out, ”Mr. President!”

I can admit now that I never voted for this guy, and thought the entire Monica episode was shameful, but heck, he had been the president, with his hand on the but-, uh, the whatever,…and here he comes, toward Claire and me, smiling that smile and offering his hand.

We chatted briefly, I think. I told him I thought my bank was being robbed. He said “Ha ha,” or words to that effect. And no, I didn’t tell him my daughter was now a woman. This was Bill Clinton, after all — I’m not totally nuts. And then off he went.

Claire and I walked back to the car, and I said, “Wow! Wasn’t that exciting!?! Let’s call someone! Let’s call Dad, or Grandma and tell them we met Bill Clinton!!” And she says, “Yuh, Mom, sure…Uh, Mom?”

“Yes, Claire?” I said, convinced I had given her a very special menstrual moment.

I’m on the high side of 40, with three dogs, two teens and one husband, living in a small New England town in a house that’s never quiet. Ever. It’s not that I have a really colorful life – I just tend to write colorfully about it. And there’s plenty of material: marriage to the Man of a Thousand Bad Ideas,.. my mom, who moved Dad’s coffin closer to the street six months after he died so she could visit his grave as a kind of drive-up window…our dog posse…our kids…lots of siblings and in-laws, former co-workers, old boyfriends -- they’re all here. Toss in 14 years of Catholic school and you’ve got a lot of guilt, too. Which reminds me: forget “high side of 40.” I’m 51, damnit.

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